They're Just Words

Disclaimer: Disclaimed

What's left unsaid

A/N: Ok so this takes place directly before Angela and Cam's little conversation

So much about you that you never let them see, you turned away, but not from me. . .

Angela signed the chain of custody card and slid the glossy 8x10 photos back into the manila evidence envelope. Atop that she added her final sketches, grabbed her purse and keys and headed for Cam's office. As far as she was concerned her weekend had started fifteen minutes ago and she wasn't going to waste another moment of it stuck inside. The weather had finally started to resemble that of spring and it had her itching for some fresh air. Maybe grab a bench in the mall and sketch a few passers by. Revisit her roots, so to speak.

As she skirted the platform, she looked up through the skylights to steal a glance at the quickly fading sunlight. Her steps slowed until she'd come to a complete stop. Twilight was upon them, the sky had already turned those lovely shades of pinks and purples that always made her think of ripe peaches and crushed grapes; they never ceased to steal her breath. And the clouds took on such a shine they truly looked silver lined.

She felt his eyes before she saw him, knew he was watching her, would swear she could feel it in the air. He was seated behind the desk in what used to be Zack's office. She knew he frequented the space whenever he was feeling off. He would never claim the room as his own but over time he'd lined the walls with what was his; tanks and cages filled with his creepy, slithery pets, labeled boxes filled with jars of soil samples or particulates from closed cases or remnants of experiments gone wrong. Tonight there was an evidence box set on the desk to his right, the lid no where to be found. The bright red labeled tape was worried, torn and peeling at the edges. He sat with a small evidence bag in his hands, his fingers slowly worrying the outline of the yellowed paper inside.

She sauntered over, taking her time and using it to assess the situation. His moods were always questionable but more so after he'd been alone sulking for God only knows how long. At least there was no alcohol involved, none that she could see anyway. She was glad it was she who found him; his heart-, which at times could be too big for him to handle was always clinging tightly to his sleeve. He had never been one for masking his feelings. And at that moment his eyes were sad, almost tortured. They were the eyes of a man steeped in self loathing.

Her love for him had never wavered it just lay dormant somewhere inside of her.

Despite her ever pressing need to vacate the filtered air and regulated temperature of the lab, he was hurting and his pain always brought her feelings for him racing to the surface. So by the time she reached the doorway, the delicious sunset was already gone from her thoughts.

"Hey Jack, whatcha got there?" She said, carefully adopting that cheerful, slightly leering tone she used so well when attempting to lighten his mood, forestall the inevitable.

He leaned back in the office chair and brought his feet up beside the box.

"Something for you actually. Something I should have given to you along time ago."

He gave her a dark look and tossed the packet rather unceremoniously across the desk toward her. It came to a sliding halt just shy of the edge, almost as if it knew they also teetered on the edge of something. He stood from his perch behind the desk, his eyes never leaving hers, and began to stalk the length of the room. He diverted his gaze from her face to the shelves before him, leaving her in his peripheral vision.

He was angry and had no real handle on the reason why. And the not knowing was probably what was bothering him the most. This was the old Hodgins. The angry all the time for no reason Hodgins. The man who, at times, walked around snapping a rubber band on his wrist in order to keep his mouth from spouting something foul. All he knew was that at times he found himself angry with her and angry with himself. Sure they were both to blame for the unraveling of their all too perfect love affair but that was no reason to go working him self into such a state.

After all, she never had moments of unraveling at the seams.

Like water off a ducks back.

Like Dr. Brennan.

As she stepped inside and reached for the small evidence bag her eyes wandered to the box beside it and seeing it brought the pieces of the evening into perspective. The box was labeled, "Hodgins, Jack November 2006." She knew inside there would be a pair of his jeans, his navy blue hoodie and his beloved leather messenger bad. They were the clothes he had been wearing when the Grave Digger had buried him with Dr. Brennan. It was a day burned into all their minds, not one of them would ever be able to put fully aside and forget the anguish Heather Taffit put them all through.

Angela dropped her purse and envelope beside the box and slowly lifted the bag. The paper inside was folded repeatedly, and the years in the air tight seal had turned the creamy paper a few shades darker than yellow, almost brown. She lifted her eyes and fixed them on his, begging the question without having to speak. No matter how either of them tried they were always so in tune with each other.

There was no need for words. How could there be when there wasn't a move the other person made that you didn't recognize? He knew every curve of her face, and all the tell tale signs of emotion in those curves. He knew that when she rolled her lips she wasn't just tasting the peach lip gloss he himself longed to sample, she was trying to keep from speaking before thinking her thoughts through.

He paced back towards her, his eyes now glued to the floor before him, his steps slow and sure. Only a breath from her face did he come to a full stop.

"Read it." He said his tone harsh with the strain of all the emotions he was trying desperately to keep contained.

For a moment Angela couldn't remember how to inhale.

"Jack, I'm not sure this is such a good idea."

"Trust me Ang, there's nothing there you don't already know."

He smiled at her for the first time that night, but it was shallow and brief. He slowly turned and in the same tempo, walked the depth of the office again. He stopped here and there to peek inside a cage or to slide his fingers along a mason jar filled with stones, or dust or dirt. On the outside, one who didn't know him would see a man in no hurry and with little on his mind. Angela however could see the tell tale signs of impatience and the slow, low burn of anger underneath.

It was the anger alone that truly worried her. He had turned it inward, like he'd done so many times before. And like so many situations before this she was always so unsure of how to react, which course of action to take. Like a screaming four year old in demand of sweets, giving in wasn't always the wisest of options. And yet despite her best intentions, she found herself reaching for the scissors.

Who was she to deny him something so simple?

She let the silver blades take hold of the edge of the bag, but couldn't bring herself to follow through. She left the clear casing in the razor edged grip of the blades and sat herself along the edge of Zack's desk.

"Why now? After all this time? What's the point of dragging this out again?" She has to ask, has to know the path that brought them here. What's the point of putting the past to rest if you're only going to go digging it up again?

"What's the point?"He questions incredulously, eyes angry and bloodshot. "Do you know what that is?" he asks, his voice booming in the small space as he points accusingly at the bag waiting in the scissors death grip.

Her shoulders fall along with her face, her eyes now focused on the item in question. She bobs her head in the affirmative before she speaks again.

"I have a pretty good idea, yeah."

"So what's the problem?"

"I don't deserve this." She looks up to find his eyes are as filled as her own, and that the heart on his sleeve just jumped ship and is now clinging to the collar of her blouse, making the fight for breath that much more difficult.

He turns and paces away again because watching the woman he loves cry is not something he can handle right now, on top of everything else. So after a few calming breaths he addresses her without turning.

"It was written for you. I should have given it to you a long time ago, like I said. I'm not asking for anything, I just think you deserve to know what I was thinking in those supposed last moments of my life. Because every thought was of you." He still doesn't turn, not even when he hears the quick brush of metal on metal as she drags the scissors across the plastic seal. He doesn't move an inch when she slowly opens the haphazard folds of the miserable paper. Not even when he hears her breath quicken, or when her feet patter softly across the threshold of the office and pick up speed down the hall.

Who wants to be the one left watching in the wake of love lost anyway?

A/N: Once again I would like to express my great appreciation for StephanieW and her wonderful beta skills